


My brother, the escapee

by BennieLee



Series: out of the lake [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Boggarts, Book 3: Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban, Gen, POA, Professor Regulus Black, Quidditch, Regulus Black Lives, Regulus Black Needs a Hug, boggart in the wardrobe, in which Hagrid is a dear, in which regulus has to play substitute for an unavailable werewolf
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-11
Updated: 2020-04-11
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:53:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23594878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BennieLee/pseuds/BennieLee
Summary: The underlying fact is that Professor Black is the brother of the mass-murdering, You-Know-Who supporting, escapee: Sirius Black.And Harry's feelings are quite mixed—because Professor Black was never really a teacher Harry got along with yet, at the same time, Harry knows too well the feeling of being blamed for something you didn’t do.(In which the events of PoA are retold with a surly, sneering, Slytherin Charms professor).
Relationships: Regulus Black & Harry Potter, Regulus Black & Remus Lupin, Regulus Black & Sirius Black, Sirius Black & Harry Potter
Series: out of the lake [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1698382
Comments: 20
Kudos: 466





	My brother, the escapee

**Author's Note:**

> This is from the same world as: He Comes Out of The Black Lake Quite Mad (i.e. a one-shot retelling of Regulus Black surviving the Inferi and made Charm's professor by Dumbledore), but with more emphasis on PoA events. 
> 
> But, this can be a standalone, so no background reading required

The class follows Lupin to the staffroom; he promises them a boggart in a wardrobe.

After an interesting altercation with Peeves (who gets chewing gum shot up his nose) they fall upon an even _more_ interesting altercation between their hook-nosed Potions Master and their haughty Charm’s professor. Between the two of them, Harry isn’t quite sure who possesses a sneer that is most Slytherin.

Until he overhears Black, voice dripping with an even more potent dose of sarcasm than the one he uses on students, say: “by all means, march up to Dumbledore and tell him exactly what you think. Prove yourself a good, old-fashioned _git_ and state the obvious—“

“Perhaps I will,” and it is the bitterness in Snape’s voice that carries it over. “After all, the surface of an _untouched lake_ can be misleading. It’s when one dips a toe—“

Black looks murderous (but terrifyingly pale and Harry can’t be sure if Black is going to suddenly keel over or curse Snape blind) but Lupin immediately intervenes, a mild smile on his face, and gestures to the group huddled behind him.

“I’d be careful of Longbottom,” says Snape smoothly and Harry can feel Neville shrink beside him. “He’ll be sending half the class to the Hospital Wing in a matchbox.”

There’s a collective laugh from the Slytherins. Harry expects Professor Black to add another snide comment (he’s always barking at Neville in class with berates of: hold that wand _properly_ — _today_ , while we’re all alive and waiting— for Merlin’s sake, Longbottom, are you _daft_?) but he doesn’t. He crosses his arms and cocks an elegant brow at Snape.

“What’s your boggart, I wonder, Severus?” he smiles, as if it’s a friendly joke, but Harry can see the glint in his eye. “A cracked cauldron?”

It’s a good laugh—mostly because it is Snape, a terror to the class, who is taken down a peg. Their hook-nosed Potion’s professor scowls but he maliciously retorts: “I doubt we have to inquire _yours,_ Black. You can simply brave us: step ahead and cast your _charm_.”

“I don’t need to do that, I already know mine,” says Black flippantly. “My mother.” And when Dean Thomas and Seamus Finnegan give a whoop of laughter, Black nods. “Terrifying woman.”

Lupin invites them to stay, if they pleased, but Snape immediately turns down the offer with a cruel smirk. Black does as well, but his usual rude streak tones down considerably when Snape is nowhere in sight.

On his way out, he catches Neville’s eye and says: “that boggart had better not turn to me, Longbottom, or there’ll be words.”

The warning is not malicious and Neville, close to trembling, senses the good intention. He turns pink but manages a smile.

* * *

Snape substitutes one of Lupin’s classes and they are given a confusing lesson on werewolves and two rolls of parchment. Quidditch is a mess of a broken broomstick, a lost match and Dementors sucking at his soul. It would’ve continued to become an abyss if misery if Professor Lupin didn’t step in and agree to tutor him in defensive spells after Christmas.

Harry heads to Defense Against the Dark Arts a week later expecting a new creature and Professor Lupin writing on the board, but the class is teacher-less and his classmates hope for a free lesson.

But all hopes are crushed when Professor Black storms in and Harry can’t tell if this will be as bad as Snape’s.

“Where’s Professor Lupin?” asks Dean Thomas when Black swoops past him.

“None of your business, Thomas,” says Black sharply, before _snapping:_ “Stick that chewing gum under that desk, Finnegan, and I’ll make sure to stick it up your nose.” He shakes his head, disgusted, and stalks to the front of the room in a fouler mood than when he first came.

The workload is light because Black is covering. He, unlike Snape, follows the lesson plan Professor Lupin has outlined and lets them finish it at their own pace.

Despite his expensive robes and his haughty expression, there is something gaunt and haggard underneath his skin. His eyes are bloodshot and dark circles, as painful as bruises, surround them. Then again, with a convict for a brother, Professor Black is holding quite well, even if his moods do fluctuate and his temper flares.

There is fifteen minutes until the end of class and everyone is mostly talking. Dean Thomas and Seamus Finnegan are standing next to Professor Black and they are grinning, asking him is his boggart really is his mother and what was it that made her so terrifying. Professor Black easily deflects the question and most of the class ends up gushing about their own monsters.

Until someone mentions Dementors and a _cold silence_ follows the question of: “have you ever visited Azkaban, Professor?” because the underlying fact is that Professor Black is the brother of the mass-murdering, You-Know-Who supporting escapee: Sirius Black.

“Bet you he’s going to go berserk and curse that poor sod,” whispers Ron.

But, in an admirable feat of self-control, Professor Black clears his throat and says: “Once.”

He meets Harry’s eyes and scowls. And dismisses the class early before he gets any more questions.

* * *

It is terse. Sirius Black waltzing into the dormitories at night and slashing Ron’s curtains dampens the joy of winning the Quidditch cup. Security tightens around the castle but it is not enough to keep Harry and Ron away from Hagrid’s invitation for tea.

Just as Harry is about to knock he hears another voice inside. He stops Ron from barging in, gestures to the window, and they tiptoe, peering through the dust-covered glass.

Of all the people in the world, Harry doesn’t expect to see Professor Black hunched over a large bowl of lukewarm tea. He looks awful; his bandaged hands grip his hair and his large, grey eyes pop out of his skull. He looks an inch away from hysterical. Hagrid reassuringly pats him on the back but it seems to do very little for Black.

“I know what they’re saying,” says Black, voice _wrangled_. “They think _I’m_ the one who’s letting him in—but I haven’t spoken to him in years, even before they dragged him off to Azkaban. I was _fifteen_ when he left home. And last I saw him, I was seventeen, and that was before—before—“ he suddenly looks sick.

“Ye dun need to be listening to them,” says Hagrid, but he is too busy pushing Fang off the table to notice the greenish tinge on Black’s face. “You’ve got Dumbledore standing for ye, fighting yer case.”

“Dumbledore’s not enough,” says Black quietly and it strikes Harry just how young his professor looks, how young his professor _is_.

But his feelings remain mixed—because Professor Black was never really a teacher Harry got along with yet, at the same time, he can’t help but pity the state he’s in. Harry knows too well the feeling of being blamed for something you didn’t do.

“I visited him in Azkaban once, you know,” says Black. Ron shoots Harry a meaningful look. “A year after he… he k-killed all those muggles and P-Potter’s parents—which d-doesn’t make any sense, because he gave _everything up_ for that arrogant prick—“ Black looks sick again and this time, he transfigures one of cushions into a bucket, grips it, ready to hurl. He doesn’t. “Sorry, sorry—I shouldn’t say that.” He shudders. “ _He’s_ dead and _I’m_ starting to sound like that greasy, hook-nosed git.”

“He’s not giving ye any grief, is he?” and the pop of a bottle uncorked is not unmissed. He moves to pour something into Black’s untouched bowl of tea.

Black inches away. He re-transfigures the bucket to a cushion and stands, shakily brushing the dust off his robes. “No, I’m fine—thanks, Hagrid. It’s best I head back to the castle. Lots of papers to mark.”

They hide before Black storms out of the hut.

* * *

It is a mess of fate and time and what happens in the Shrieking Shack tightens around Harry’s chest, threatening to suffocate him. It eases when Hermione puts the chain around his neck and they lure Buckbeak into the forest, blast Sirius out of his cell and watch him fly out to the stars.

But Pettigrew escaped and Lupin resigns and, even though Harry’s told that, despite what he believes, he actually _did_ make a difference… he can’t help but feel the bitterness lingering at the back of his throat and the flickering of what-could-have-beens and a-life-he-could’ve-had if Sirius’ name was cleared and Pettigrew was arrested.

There’s a day left until he’s to board the Hogwart’s Express and he’s not really in the mood to linger in the common room, play chess or help Hermione with the books she intends to borrow from the library.

He takes his firebolt and walks to the Quidditch Pitch, intent on a lazy, lonely ride around the field.

But he’s so lost in his head that he doesn’t notice Professor Black. And Professor Black must be so lost in _his_ head because he certainly doesn’t notice Harry. They bump into each other and it’s awfully awkward because they’ve never really gotten along.

And then it’s even more awkward because Harry doesn’t know if Regulus Black knows that his brother is innocent and safely on the run, aboard a Hippogriff, soaring into the unknown. Or if he’s even _supposed_ to know. Or if he _should_ know.

After all, Harry always felt there was always something _off_ with Professor Black. It’s not the same ‘this-man-could-be-evil-and-shouldn’t-be-trusted’ aura he gets from Snape. But, it’s a complete _lie_ to say that it’s _not_ , in some way or another.

“Out for a midday fly, are you?” says Black, brow cocked at the broom Harry’s holding. Even though he’s smirking, it’s not as malicious as it usually is. He looks, dare Harry even _think_ it, quite happy _._

“Yeah. I don’t really get a lot of opportunities to fly around in the summer,” and Harry doesn’t know why he offered that piece of personal information.

But Black frowns, says: “Oh yeah, you live with muggles, isn’t that right?” and Harry can’t be sure if his professor is disgusted by the fact that they’re _filthy_ muggles or that they’re _simply_ muggles, hence, summer will be a bore. “Don’t let me hold you up then.”

And then, in an surge of stupidity, Harry turns around and says: “Um, Professor— about Sirius Black—“ and then clams his mouth shut because Professor Black’s brows shoot right up and Harry’s suddenly afraid he got the whole situation wrong, that maybe they didn’t get along as well as he thought they did. “He… escaped…” he says lamely and wracks his brains on whether or not he should put on the whole act of being angry that his parents murderer isn’t going to face justice, or the fact that an innocent man is free from a fate worse than death.

Professor Black throws his head back and gives a bark-like laugh, so similar to Sirius’, Harry thinks his godfather is swooping above them, ready to descend.

“Yeah, of course he did. Sirius isn’t Sirius if he’s not making a run for it on the back of a bloody Hippogriff,” and Professor Black is smiling and it makes him look infinitely younger than Harry has ever seen him. If the sixth year girls fell head over heels for Black when he walked around so surly and unapproachable, Harry didn’t know what they’d do if they saw him like this: at ease, boyish, _alive_. “I got a letter from him, actually—don’t know how, but… It’s maddening; the last time I ever got a letter from him I was sixteen and…” his smile softens, and it is tragically sad. “Well… things were different.”

“Do you know where he’s going to be?”

Professor Black shrugs. “Not really.” He notices the expression on Harry’s face and adds: “I wouldn’t worry, though. He survived twelve years of Azkaban. He’ll survive anything.”

Just as Harry was about to ask him about the whole Professor Lupin situation and if something could be done, he can hear a giggling, gaggle of seventh year girls approaching. The pleasant expression on Professor Black’s face changes into his usual: surly, sneering, ‘too-aristocractic-to-give-you-the-time-of-day’ as Ron calls it.

“Well then, Potter, have a good summer,” says Black, skirting around him, ready to make a run for it by the looks of it. “Forget your Charms essay and I’ll have your head on a pike.”

“Have a good summer, Professor,” says Harry and recommences his quest to the Quidditch pitch.

He looks over his shoulder and takes in the castle overlooking the lake, the overcast skies, the pitiful sight of Professor Black’s failed escape as a haggle of seventh year girls successfully surround him.

Harry hops onto his Firebolt and soars, just as Sirius did the night of his freedom, but, even then, manages to catch the look in Regulus Black’s eye and they grin, that secret grin of a rightful truth kept between them.


End file.
